


chef's knives

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Jokes, Chef Reader, F/M, Jealous Bucky, lots of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 12:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: you’re the avengers’ personal chef, and you find yourself attracted to a certain supersoldier





	1. i

It had started innocently enough.

“It” being…everything. Working in Stark Tower, having a crush on James Buchanan Barnes, feeding Natasha Romanoff brownies.

Everything. Everything started innocently enough.

Tony had wanted a private chef to make food in front of guests at one his infamous parties. This one was for politicians, to keep them on the good side of the Avengers. Sure, everyone knew they needed the superheroes to defend their constituents, but they didn’t have to like having them around. Making sure they didn’t want to rip out Tony Stark’s teeth was, still is, an important part of the job.

You’ve been to your fair share of fundraisers and galas and whatnots with policy makers before, and you knew they liked a good show with dinner. Hiring someone like you to do a job like that isn’t abnormal. 

That particular weekend was the weekend before 4th of July weekend, and everyone had happened to take the weekend off far, far away. You had planned to do the same thing, but with the lure of meeting some sexy superheroes,  bonus pay, and any tips you happened to make, it was too much, just way too much to turn up.

You had bills due, medical and student loans and rent and you needed to buy new chef’s knives and a gift for your Mom’s birthday and…and oh god, what you were talking about? The temptation of being able to not lose sleep over money (or not having enough of it) overwhelmed the shitty log cabin weekend you had planned with your family.  

So, you agreed to take the shift, signed the multiple NDAs required, and showed up to the party.

It ended being just as weird as you expected. You’ve been required to sign pesky non-disclosure agreements before; there are lots of people in New York who just want to let loose and not have secrets released to the public. While the assassins and super soldiers and gods (Oh my!) were a bit different, the fat, old, Democrats eating a ton of shrimp while complaining about the opposite party were not.

As you worked, you got used to the ebb and flow of the party. People would come and go, telling you what they wanted and occasionally thanking you. You fell into its rhythm, and soon the grandeur was over. As you were packing up, you were spooked by one of Mr. Stark’s assistants. She asked you to come down to his office immediately.  

You were utterly confused.

Why did Mr. Stark aka Iron Man aka major political donator aka the dude who was about to pay your bills want to see you? Sure, if you did an exceptionally excellent the host would praise you in front of their guests to seem like an even better person, but you’ve never been asked to go into a private meeting.

You followed the assistant wordlessly up to his office. She was tapping away at a tablet balanced on a thick binder, full of information you’d probably be killed for knowing. Or it was just copies of the paperwork you had signed. Or it was Mr. Stark’s personal diary.

Either way, you didn’t dare ask what was kept between the pieces of plastic. You instead kept to yourself and followed the lead of the woman ahead of you.

When you walked into the office, you noticed several plates of varying levels of empty strewn across his desk.

Well, “empty” was the wrong word.

“Clean” seemed to better fit the situation. Some looked like they had just come off of the clean tray you used to stack them, some of them had streaks of white that cut through the orange sauces - obviously coming from someone swiping their finger over them - and some still had bits of food on them.

Stark was facing the other way, talking to a tall blonde woman you recognized from earlier. You remembered her oddly specific order: stir fry with chicken, not pork, and extra snow peas, carrots, and water chestnuts.

“Cutting out red meat,” she told you, as if your wordless nod had actually been some sort of judgemental gaze. “Wanted to feel healthier.”

Before he even turned around, you felt insanely out of place.

The woman was wearing a deep red dress with exquisite jewelry and nude heels.

He was wearing a deep steel grey suit.

The assistant was wearing a black pants suit with matching flats.

You felt awkward, dirty, in your uniform and sneakers. Before you could feel the full effects of your embarrassment, though, the blonde woman nudged Mr. Stark with her foot and he turned around.

You thought he was about to berate you, tell you that one of the guests got food poisoning, or someone picked up one of your now-forgotten knives and stabbed someone and now you were the primary suspect in some sort of murder-suicide case and he was the only witness and he’s totally going to claim you did it.

Instead, he looked…exuberant. Almost comically so.

“Ah!” He said, rising out of his seat and going to grasp your hand, proceeding to give you the most aggressive handshake you’d ever witnessed or experienced in your entire life. “You must be the chef!”

You nodded, unable to verbally confirm.

“I have to say,” he moved around the room, gesturing to all of the plates. “Everything you made tonight, and I mean everything was absolutely superb!”

Your breathe flowed out of your nose like wave, a thinly veiled sigh of relief. You had an emergency fund, but it’s not enough to cover a lawyer to defend you against a murder charge.

“Thank you, sir,” is all you could get out.

The blonde woman walked behind him, grabbing his shoulders before circling a hand around his waist.

She was thin, tall, calm. She was the only lit lamp post on your midnight walk home. Safe, a literal and metaphorical light in the dark, a guiding light that calms your fears, a yellow glow in-

You really needed to stop with the light metaphors.

“My apologies,” she smiled at him before turning back to you. “My husband gets a little…big when he gets excited. We were reading your resume and it says you have a degree in Dietetics and were on track to be a nutritionist before you went to culinary school?”

You nodded slowly. “I, uh…yes. The second I finished my internship I enrolled in culinary school.”

She hummed as if to say “interesting.” It bordered on condescending. “Why the career change?”

You shrugged. You never really knew why. “Just needed something different.”

She smirked. “So you went a career about food to a career with food.”

You snorted a little. Talking to her was a lot easier than you had expected. “The verbs mattered more to me than the nouns.”

All three of them laughed outwardly at that, the sudden and loud noise spooked you a little.

That’s when the woman looked a little shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t think we introduced ourselves! I’m Pepper Potts and this is,”

Mr. Stark snorted a little, rolling his eyes. “She knows who I am.”

They bickered for a little bit, fighting about decorum and being rude to guests and why are you being so mean to someone we’re trying to hire and do you know what time I have need to be up tomorrow?

You gasped a little. Hire? Why would they need to hire you?

You internally kicked yourself after you realized you had spoken out loud.

Tony sighed. You could tell it wasn’t about you, though. Something more…existential.

“Here’s the problem. I house the best, brightest, and strongest in the world in my home. Actually, that’s not the problem. I mean, they’re all problems, but that’s not the point,” he waved his hand around, as if to dispel what had just left his lips. “The problem is that all of them eat like broke college students with no will to live. It’s awful. I mean, Banner has seven PhDs and he can’t cook a damn egg every once and awhile? Anyway, I need you to see what each Avenger needs in their diet, and then make sure they eat according to it.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I…Uh…”

The blo- Mrs. Potts, grabbed a thin stack of paper from the rich wooden desk, and handed it to you.

“Here’s the contract. We need an answer in about…four days. So Tuesday, at 10 pm. Is that okay with you?”

You agreed wordlessly. All you could look at was the salary. Six figures? An apartment in the Tower? Honestly, he could’ve told you that you needed to poison one of them and you’d still take the job. It would pay off all of your smaller debts with one or two paychecks, and (if you were doing your math correctly) would leave you college-debt free by the end of the year.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled, hoping they they didn’t hear you.

“Yeah,” you said, a little louder this time. “That’s totally okay with me. Should I just,” you pointed to the number under that rested under his name and numerous job titles.

Mrs. Potts nodded. “Yes, feel free to call any time of day or night.”

You breathed deeply, trying to calm your nerves.

“Yes, of course. You’ll be hearing from me soon,” you said aloud, while all you could think was “There is no doubt in my tiny brain that I will be accepting this job offer as soon as I get paid from this gig so I can call you.”

When you get home, your roommate told  you to sleep on it. Consider your options, or something like that.

She made about $750 more a year than you, so you followed her advice. You slept on it, or rather, you laid in your bed until your morning alarm went off for work. You called from a coworker’s phone during a break.

No one picked up, so you left a short message with an alternative way of contacting you.

You got an email about fifteen minutes later and it took you an hour to open it. It looks like a dissertation, it’s so full of information.

Driving times, weekly salary, payday, apartment information, dietary background on everyone you’ll be cooking for. It’s overwhelming.

It all happens quickly. That day, you hand your two weeks in, start packing your apartment, call your big sister to tell her everything about what’s happening, let your roommate know you’ll be moving out soon, and so on.

The vast amount of change in such little time almost gave you whiplash.

Soon, you found yourself able to cook in a state of the art kitchen, trying to figure out what to make for dinner. A meeting had run late, too late, so you thought it would be nice to make something they could eat and before heading to bed…or whatever superheroes are doing at 10:35 at night on a Tuesday.

You enjoy listening to music while you cook, especially big meals. It keeps you focused, in the zone. You put on your playlist and flip through your cookbooks and notes, trying to find that thing you had jotted down about Steve’s favorite foods…

When you turn around, you crash into Bucky. When you had asked him about food preferences and dietary restrictions, he had answered in short, choppy sentences. You assume he was the only one not in the meeting, given he was wearing what looks like pajamas.

“Sorry,” he gruffs out, and moves around you to get to the fridge. He takes out a styrofoam box and sniffs the inside, deeming the leftover Chinese food edible. You swallow the urge to shame him.

“I’m making dinner, you know…” you say instead. It’s worse, somehow, than direct, straight up degradation.

“Oh, yeah..” he seems not at all put off by your words. Thank God. He seems excited, happy even. “What are you making?’

You shrug, open for suggestions. “Anything you want. Haven’t started yet, was hoping someone would come in here and tell me what to do.”

You laugh a little, pushing your hair further into your headband.

Bucky lets out a small chuckle. His seems a little more hesitant.

“Can you make pizza?” He asks, like a little child hoping he won’t be scolded.

You nod. “Of course, give me…” you look at the oven.

You had been preheating is for something else (even if you didn’t know what that something else was), but the temperature is fine. “About thirty to forty-five minutes.”

Bucky grins, again in a childlike fashion.

“But that’s so long!” he whines.

You laugh again. “Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

You’ve been making pizza since you were a child, you could do this blindfolded with both arms tied behind your back. Once the delicacy is in the oven, the scent hits the air, and one-by-one the Avengers start trickling in. First Steve, then Clint, then Sam, then Natasha, then Tony and Banner at once (you guess they were working in their labs together, when Tony doesn’t lead meetings he likes to sketch inventions and Bruce always loves to indulge his fantasies), then Wanda, and, finally, Bucky. He had gone back to his room for a little while to do…whatever. Whatever it is he does.

They’re all staring at you like hungry puppies, begging for little scraps of food to feed their emaciated bellies.

You’re standing at the kitchen island, body facing all of them while you plan breakfast for the next morning.

It’s hard not to look up, especially after Clint lets out a real, actual, bonafide whine.

That’s when you tilt your head up to see all of them watching you like hawks.

“Really, guys? You’ve still got,” you take a peek at the timer right next to your notebook. “Five minutes left, not counting the time it’ll take to cool down.”

They all groan.

“Do we have to wait that long?”  Steve whines.

Natasha snaps at him before you have the chance, and you mentally thank her. You don’t want to cross the line on your first day on the job.

“Yes, stupid,” she says. “Or else you’ll burn the Hell out of your mouth.”

You hum in agreement and turn back to your task.

It’s another thirty seconds before you’re interrupted again.

“Whatcha doin’?” Sam asks.

“Figuring out what I’m going to make for breakfast tomorrow,” you reply.

Suddenly, you’re bombarded with suggestions.

“I want pancakes!” Wanda cries.

“I want crepes!” Bruce wails.

“Don’t forget coffee!” Tony yells.

You wave your hands to make them stop. “Hold up, I was brought here to make sure you all stayed healthy, and none of the things you just listed qualify.”

They all groan and you roll your eyes.

“Tomorrow I’m making omelettes for breakfast with sausage patties, if anyone wants to disagree with me they can make their own meals,” you tell them.

You’ve worked with some aggressive ass chefs, teachers, all of it. You know how to handle complete buffoonery from one person. One person, though, is different from a hoard of superheroes. Especially a hoard of superheroes who, judging by the amount of take out menus you threw away, have only eaten meals that are premade for the last…forever. For forever.

You take a look around the room, and notice Bucky. He’s the only who hasn’t said anything. Instead, he’s waiting patiently. Like a good little boy waiting for his meal.

When it’s finally finished, you give him his slices second, after Natasha, of course. She had stood up for you, she deserved to have her food first.

A few weeks later, with you settled into your room and your new position as nutritionist/chef/babysitter/occasional bartender, everyone had gotten used to you and you’d gotten used to them.

You’re currently in the kitchen, feeding Natasha some “cosmetically unsound” brownies while you wrap up the rest for her to take to a post-mission debrief. It’s not that the Avengers need desserts at any of their meetings, but Fury was always nicer when he was eating something with chocolate in it, and everything is better when he’s happy. So you always happily made a dozen or so whatevers to make the meetings more enjoyable.

Natasha moans at the taste, you smile at her glee, and Bucky…

Bucky’s jealous.

Bucky, like everyone else who had tasted your baking (or cooking), loves everything you whip together. Everything.

He’d eat dog food, if you made it. Your coffee even tastes better. It’s like you’re made of some kind of culinary magic.

“Hey, Nat,” he calls out.

You and Natasha are still giggling as she turns around to meet Bucky’s gaze. Crumbs stick to the corner of her lips as she speaks.

Her tone is light, but it’s obviously not because she’s happy to see Bucky. “What’s up, Barnes?”

As he walks closer to her, folder gripped tightly in his metal hand, the sweet smell of baking overwhelms him. It’s calming, almost like he’s a child again, watching his mom bake in the kitchen as he eagerly awaits his turn to lick the spatula.

By the looks of it, though, he’s too late.

It currently rests in the bowl you used to stir the batter, soaking in water to make whoever’s job it was to do dishes next a little easier. A quick glance at the fridge says it’s Clint’s turn, but he has a feeling you’ll do it for him.

God, you’re so nice.

Bucky stumbles over his words as he attempts to speak. You’re not looking at him as he does so, busying yourself with putting everything away.

“Uh, Steve…Steve wanted you to look at this before the debrief today. He also, uh,” he points to the brownies. “Wanted me to tell you not to forget those.”

Natasha snorts and takes the file. It’s not important. Well it is important, but not more important than the conversation you and her were just having. She promptly rolls her eyes and turns to you, watching you carefully as you saran wrap the pan with the brownies in it.

“Trust me,” she says. “I won’t.”

Bucky walks away, this time with nothing to occupy the nervous wringing of his hands. As his back turns, he hears giggling again.

Does he hate you, or something? Why wouldn’t you look at him?

When he’s safely in the elevator, he finds Steve is headed up, too. He rests his hand against Bucky’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort his friend. “You’ll get her next time, buddy. I promise.”


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you’re finally used to your job at the avenger’s personal chef. the next thing to tackle is your pesky crush on one James Buchanan Barnes

Back in the kitchen, you and Natasha turned back to your previous conversation.

It’s insane. Bucky seems to like your food, always leaving notes on your stack of cookbooks in the kitchen on what he wants to eat.

But for some reason, he never wants to spend time with you.

Natasha, Sam, and Steve are the only ones who ever come grocery shopping with you for ingredients, even though you offer to take Bucky every week.

It had begun to take a toll on you, emotionally. Were you not good enough for him? Why doesn’t he like you? Is he just taking pity on you when he eats the food you make him? Does he secretly hate you? Is he trying to convince Tony to fire you?

Nastasha sees it all; both sides of the pining. It’s disgusting, really disgusting.

She sees Bucky’s longful stare. They way he cleans dishes after you’re done cooking. Sometimes asks to help you prep meals.

She also sees the way you always feed him first (with the exception of that pizza a few months ago) and ask him how it is with hungry eyes. You always make what he requests, it doesn’t matter what it is or when he asks for it.

Correction: it’s absolutely and totally disgusting

She had found you, just about to start the brownies.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked, trying to remain sweet in her interruption. Don’t get her wrong, she really wants to have a heart-to-heart friend-to-friend girl-to-girl conversation with you, but she also wants some of your amazing brownies. Priorities.

You hummed in lieu of an actual response.

“You need to talk to Bucky. He’s dying, honey. Absolutely dying.”

You stand up and shrug, trying to remain coy. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course you know! You know he’s practically in love with you and it’s killing him because he thinks you don’t like him back!”

You had tried to remain calm at the revelation, attempting to squander the middle schoolgirl in you.

No, you told yourself. You can’t go chasing men. Remember what you told you told yourself when you got accepted into culinary school. Education, then career. Nothing else.

Natasha had sighed deeply. “C’mon. He’s been crying to Steve since you first got here. America’s sweetheart just got fed up with it and told me to talk to you.”

You were starting to get frustrated. “Well, tell Steve to tell Bucky that if he really likes me, he can speak to me himself and ask me on a date like a real man. I’m not twelve anymore, Natasha, I refuse to be dragged around some kind of fangirl.”

You thought that would make her leave you alone, but no. She stuck near you like glue until you fed her baked goods.

Then Bucky had come down, and she gave you a look. Not a regular look, a look. You both knew what it meant, but neither said anything out loud.

It was frustrating! You just wanted him to ask you out.

Was he intimidated by you? Wanting you to make the first move? God, you hate men.

After the debrief ends and you feed them lunch, you’re sitting on your bed, reading.

A soft knock on the door almost gets drowned out by the climax of your book’s plot, but luckily you catch it.

“Come in!” You call, not wanting to get up from your cozy spot. You’ve changed into sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. Perfect for disconnecting from the rest of the crazy outside world via novel.

You’re a little taken aback when Bucky opens the door, looking as tired as you.

He steps right into the doorway and you immediately stand up to meet him.

“Hey, you say. It’s soft, breathless. Like you just ran a marathon. “What’s up?”

Bucky looks like he’s about to speak, but he closes his mouth before words can escape.

When he open sit again, all he can get out is “Do you wanna….” before he sighs. He just can never seem to find the right words with you.

You bite your lip, begging him to say something.

He clears his throat and starts again.

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” His accent seeps through, making the words thick and sweet like syrup.

“Yes, of course,” you say, still breathless.

Bucky wasn’t counting on you saying yes. He expected you to turn him down, and he had a whole game plan for that. Sulk back to his room and eat something made of chocolate…which you made.

Wow, for someone who plans dangerous missions for a living, he’s very bad at this.

“How about tonight, seven pm. Meet me up at the roof?”

You nod. “Yeah, sounds perfect.”

The second Bucky’s out the door, you text in your “Women who deal with too much bullshit” groupchat.

Wanda texts back first.

OMG I’LL BE AT YOUR ROOM IN LIKE FIVE MINUTES

Maria texts second.

Have you decided what ur gonna wear??

Natasha is last, about five minutes later.

I’m bringing you red wine while we outfit plan!!!

For an assassin, Natasha Romanoff really likes giving dating advice.

When they’re finally all together, you commence the mini-mental breakdown you’d been saving for when they all were laying on your bed while you pace around…surrounded by various items of clothing.

“What do I wear? It’s gonna be cold, but I don’t wanna seem like I don’t care, you know? God, what if he thinks I’m trying too hard!”

They all roll their eyes in unison. It’s almost comical. Almost.

“God,” Maria says. “Do you know how much shit I’ve heard about you while Bucky thinks he’s just talking to Steve over comms? I can tell you for a fact that if you were into pet play, he’d be down.”

You and Wanda both cringe, but Natasha perks up.

  
“Really? That’s far…Wait how does he know what pet play is?” she shakes her head and turns to you. “He really likes you. You’ll be fine!”

You groan. “Knowing Bucky is sexually adventurous is very valuable information. Thank you, Hill,”

She tilts her glass to you as if you say “I gotchu, bud” while you take a deep breath.

“But I still have no idea what to wear!”

Wanda scoffs. “It’s not gonna be windy, just a little chilly. Wear those tall suede chunky heels and that cute pink dress with the deep neckline and the shoulders exposed.”

You crinkle your nose. “But won’t I be cold?”

“Yes,” Wanda says. “But then he’ll give you his jacket.”

“Ahhh” you, Natasha, and Maria all say in unison.

“You’re a genius!” you cry.

“I know,” she replies knowingly.

When 6:55 rolls around, you shoo them off of you.

Your hair and makeup looks flawless, but not too flawless. Like a casual flawless. A flawless that doesn’t try too hard. A flawless that comes naturally. One could say you woke up like this.

You make your way up to the roof, and you almost melt.

It’s a scene out of a 4.5 star romcom: little fairy lights make your pathway to a picnic with your favorite foods. It’s…breathtaking. You barely have time to take it all in before Bucky comes up behind you, encircling his flesh arm around his waist while the metal one holds a bottle of red wine in front of you.

It’s the good stuff, too. The nice stuff. The “I really like you so I’m going to get you tipsy” stuff. The “I stole this from Stark please don’t tell on me I just really like you” stuff.

You gasp and take it in your hands while Bucky guides you to the spot where your food lays.

Once you two sit down and you have a chance to admire the effort he put into the date, you lock eyes.

He seems nervous.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You take another look around and run your fingers over the soft blanket. “Oh God, how could I not…it looks so pretty out here…”

“Good,” he says, opening the wine. “Don’t want to mess up our first date.”

You smile even wider as he pours you some wine and hands the glass to you.

You hold the glass up. “What should be toast to?’

Bucky places his finger on his chin and taps, mockingly thinking. “How about good health?”

You laugh lightly. “That’s so cliche! What about we toast for each other?”

Bucky smiles. “Sounds good.”

After you toast, the cold night air makes you shiver a little. Bucky immediately places his thick flannel over you, and you make a note to thank Wanda for her good service. Not only did you just get your crush to give up his jacket, but now you also get to see him in a beautiful black t-shirt that leaves little to the imagination.

You two talk the night away. You talk about being in food service, he talks about being an Avenger. You share equally hilarious stories about your jobs, even if Bucky’s seem a little more…dangerous.

It’s hours later when you find yourself falling asleep on Bucky’s chest, his arm draped protectively over you.

He’s still asleep, snoring softly, when you wake up. You wiggle your way so that your face is right next to him and just watch him. He’s so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. You peck him on the cheek before snuggling back into his warm chest to fall asleep again.

In the dark, you don’t see Steve slip Natasha twenty dollars in various types of bills.

“I told you they’d fall asleep on each other,” Natasha chides, counting her bounty.

Steve sighs. “I know, I should have expected this. Now I’m down twenty bucks and I owe Sam another ten for Bucky actually cooking food.”

Natasha tsks. “He can be a real sap when he wants to be. For someone who’s known him since forever, you’re really bad at predicting his future behavior.”

“It’s the love,” Steve says. “Ma says it always changes a man when he’s in love.”

Natasha watches you two cuddles for another moment before responding. “Yeah, especially when that man knows he’s about to get some goodass food out of it.


End file.
